


Bittersweet

by sevendials



Series: Bait and Switch [2]
Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Angst, M/M, PTSD, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-13
Updated: 2006-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevendials/pseuds/sevendials
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ken is attacked on a mission gone wrong, Youji discovers that there are some things love can't cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> Standard Copyright Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz, the characters therein, its indices (whatever they may be) and everything else that makes up the functional part of my gloriously nutty fandom remain the property of Kyoko Tsuchiya, Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiss and Movic, not to mention a load of American companies I can’t even begin to name who licensed the thing when it hit the States and who I hate for failing to perpetrate a UK release. I doubt anybody would consider paying me to write this stuff if I was out for money which I’m not, but I write it anyway, both for my own enjoyment and that of any angst addict who may wish to fall victim to it.
> 
> Author’s notes: This story is a sequel of sorts to the rather twisted Die Fürsprache, or at least it is in that it refers to the events of that fic, but I’m hoping it’ll make sense without a prior acquaintance with that particular piece of fanfictional evil. This fic sprung from my mild annoyance with the fanfic cliché that is using sex as a means of rape counseling. I’m getting well and truly tired of seeing couples having beautiful and not even remotely problematic consensual sex hard on the heels of one of the partners’ violent rape, hence this story…

And he hardly knows why they bother.

Youji knows it is going nowhere from the start. He knows it from the way Ken steels himself as if in preparation for inevitable unpleasantness. He knows it from the tension in his muscles when they embrace, from the way Ken catches his breath as Youji’s fingers brush against his back – Ken is learning to handle proximity and contact and normally it doesn’t bother him any more, but bring them here and turn the lights down low and it’s as if nothing has changed since the first night, context, as ever, being all. But most of all Youji knows it from his eyes. His eyes are wrong. They are wide, apprehensive, dark with hard-suppressed fear; his smile is an obscenity, going no way to disguise the apprehension in his gaze, the panic trapped just beneath the surface waiting only for a chance to break free. Ken always did have indiscreet eyes.

Another quiet evening. They’re attuned to the waiting game by now, to the odd patches of nothingness between the end of one assignment and the beginning of another. Sometimes it’s a nothing, a matter of days and hardly time for them to catch their breaths, let alone recuperate, before being thrust abruptly back into action again. Sometimes, a month or more could pass marked by nothing more objectionable than angry customers and occasional arguments, and nothing more demanding than ministering to the capricious requirements of vacillating society brides.

Nothing to do with the dead days but try to fill them and pretend to be as normal as they know how. Nothing to do but play at floristry and try to handle one another…

Not knowing how long they’ve got, this time, before it all starts up again is – it is aggravating, and somehow it’s the long waits that are the worst. Time to kill makes Ken feel awkward and resentful, ill at ease with himself and with his companions. He needs to have something to think about and flowers simply don’t hold his attention. It’s been, he freely admits, a bad day.

Another quiet evening; wantonly isolated Aya skipped dinner again, skipped out again, and once again it turned out nobody quite knew when he’d left, or where he was going, or what time he was planning on being back. It wasn’t even a surprise any more. Omi, scrupulously camouflaged as a normal high-schooler, headed out to a study group the minute the meal was over. Youji should have gone out too, but he didn’t. Didn’t even seem to have considered it leaving Ken, who had been waiting only for him to disappear so he could – he didn’t know, but he’d been expecting solitude – at something of a loss.

Sometimes, being alone with Youji makes Ken feel sad.

Ken can’t remember what he talked about as he cleared the table. Not much, he suspects. He must have spoken carefully about nothing at all and tried not to think. And then Youji had put his arms about his waist while he was trying to wash up and Ken had recoiled and dropped the serving dish he was holding, but fortunately only into the sink; the apron he was wearing took the worst of it. You’re cute when you’re startled, Youji had said teasingly when Ken demanded to know what the Hell he thought he was doing.

Sure, _whatever_. Fuck. I’m soaked.  
Yeah, I can see that.  
Well, whose fault is that? Christ, I’d better not have broken that—  
Ken.  
What?  
Forget the damn dish.

He loves him; God knows why. Ken certainly doesn’t. Ken can’t remember how or when this strange, awkward something started, but he knows it started far too late and he remembers fighting against it, wanting it to be nothing for both their sakes only to realize with a strange equanimity that it could never be. They drifted together seemingly without ever once realizing that was what they were doing and, by the time either of them realized the danger, it was far too late to do anything about it. Ken loves Youji and he wishes for Youji’s sake that the man would forget him.

He can’t give Youji anything. Not while Schuldig still has him and Ken has no idea how to go about shaking him loose. It has been – God, it must have been months since the supposedly simple mission that had seen him making a deal with Schuldig for the sake of saving Youji, only to discover that the Schwarz wasn’t intending a straight swap and had no interest in taking his life. Sometimes Ken still finds himself wishing Schuldig had killed him instead.

No such grace for Ken. Schuldig had raped him, and he’d had Youji watch.

It has taken far too long for him to so much as tolerate Youji’s touch and Ken knows he isn’t right for this man. He wishes Youji would go find someone better, someone who could give him everything Ken can’t…

But Youji won’t do that. He wouldn’t even consider it.

It hurts Ken to know that Youji loves him too.

Ken's own feelings leave him unnerved, more, frightened, and he doesn’t know how to respond to them. Doesn’t know what the Hell he should be doing. He wonders how, after everything he’s seen, Youji can find it in himself to care. Perhaps, Ken thinks, this is Schuldig’s fault too. Perhaps they have Schuldig to thank-blame-whatever for this… and even the idea repels him. It’s not like that, he tells himself. It can’t be like that, because he doesn’t think he could stand it if it was.

(And he wonders if Youji pities him, but somehow he can’t find the words to ask.)

Leaving them here, marooned in Youji’s bedroom with nothing but the incomplete darkness and one another and a need neither of them can name and have no idea how to fulfill. It’s only now proximity becomes a problem. It’s only now Ken can’t pretend that contact means nothing that contact becomes, once again, something he can do nothing but fear.

Ken swallows. “Maybe if I can see you,” he says hesitantly. He already knows it isn’t going to help.  
“You’re sure about this.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but the question’s there all the same.  
“Of course I’m sure.” And Youji is certain Ken wants to sound indignant, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t sound like anything. His voice is a careful blank. He is trying to give nothing away. His eyes say he’s terrified and he hasn’t got a clue.

And it is the same as always. Furtive, inelegant, awkward. Baulked.

It is nobody’s decision that Youji, shivering slightly in the face of the chill evening breeze blowing in through his recklessly open windows, undress first; it is simply something they both understand must be so, though neither is willing to admit to knowing the reason for it when it’s easier by far to pretend that’s just the way it should be. It is nobody’s decision that he fail to bring the process to completion, that he stop at the almost-but-not-quite of underwear. It is nobody’s decision that Ken, perched awkwardly on the edge of Youji’s bed as if he knows he really shouldn’t be there, merely watches him with analytical eyes, his face atypically grave.

Youji can’t pretend it doesn’t bother him slightly that Ken says nothing, does nothing. There’s something pointedly uncomfortable about near-nakedness in the face of the fully-dressed. Something awkward about a watcher’s indifference, even if it is only feigned. Not, he knows, that he needs tell Ken that.

“I want to do this, Youji,” Ken says firmly, and knowing he means it only makes matters worse. It’s not an act of misguided generosity. It’s not because he feels he has to, or because he thinks that Youji wants him to. Ken is here only because he wants to be – but since when has what he wants been relevant?

Youji only expects it now. He expects Ken to grow tense when he gently lies him back on the bed, expects him to shy away as he reaches for the hem of his tee-shirt. It’s already an old story but still he persists, because maybe someday he’ll find the story changed. As Youji gently strips him of his top Ken briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep, shaky breath and Youji wonders what he is thinking about, and knows it’s not about him and what he’s doing, and knows he can do nothing about it. Ken flinches as Youji’s fingers brush against his back as if the contact is painful, flinches as if the touch has reopened the scars there and the feeling of Youji’s breath coming soft against his neck has him biting his lip, fighting against memories he desperately wishes he didn’t possess, and can’t even deny possessing. You lose.

Yeah. Yeah. He lost long ago.

“Ken?”  
“I’m fine.” Ken says hopelessly. “Fine.”

And – what is he trying to prove? – Ken wraps his arms about Youji’s neck and pulls the blonde to him, and his embrace is tight and desperate as that of a man half-drowned. A hank of Youji’s hair tumbles against one of his cheeks and he gasps, his eyes going wide. Calm down, Youji wants to say. Please, calm down… he strokes Ken's hair, traces the line of his spine, trying to communicate calm. Nothing to do but wait for Ken's breathing to grow less ragged, for him to master the panic they both know to be irrational, not that the knowledge changes anything. Some nights, this is the end of it. Times like this, he fancies he can see the scars in Ken's eyes.

(Not, Youji knows, that he escaped unscathed. Far from it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Schuldig smiles at him, at the both of them – you’re not missing much – and Youji screws his own eyes shut over the memory, as if trying to reject it, and resists the temptation to curse. He’s the constant. He would have been here regardless, else dead… he knows full well he has scars of his own. He wonders what they look like to Ken.)

Youji’s arms tighten about Ken, his embrace both protective and bluntly possessive and the boy pretends, as he always does, not to notice it. He pretends not to know what it means. He knows Youji needs the reassurance every bit as much as he does – maybe more.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Youji murmurs.  
“I know.” Ken smiles. His gaze is steady. He doesn’t relax even slightly.

Youji is not Schuldig. It’s different this time. Better. This man’s touch is gentle, the look in his sleepy eyes is one of affection and quiet concern and (however baulked and furtive it may be) a subtle kind of passion. The touch of his hand, as it strokes his brow and gently disorders his already tumbled fringe, is soft and careful and calming. This man doesn’t want to hurt him, isn’t going to twist his fingers in his hair and yank his head back and listen to him struggle to catch his breath, or rake his fingernails across his abdomen simply to see him react: this man isn’t out to tear him apart. He sees him as far more than a convenient body; tells him his feelings are paramount, not irrelevant; he is thinking of him. He wants to look at him, wants to look in his eyes. Youji is nothing like Schuldig – so why can’t Ken forget him? Why is Schuldig always there?

Fuck off, Schuldig, Ken thinks frantically, and why does his throat feel so tight? Just fuck _off_. This is none of your business.

Ken fights for self-control, fights and wins; he looks up at Youji and smiles shakily and all Youji can do is smile back, though smiling’s the last thing he feels like doing. You don’t have to do this, Ken.

But Ken wants to. And that’s the whole problem.

“I’m fine, Youji. Really. I want this.”

And Ken relaxes, forcing himself to find calm. Youji can feel it in the way the tension slowly seeps from his body, the way his muscles relax. His embrace is no longer a taut, desperate thing. Gently, oh so gently, Youji kisses Ken's brow, his cheek, and is gratified to see him blush slightly, as if everything were normal; gently, he lets his hands roam across the planes of Ken's chest, drifting downward almost accidentally. Take it slow. Ken runs one hand up Youji’s neck, letting himself play absently with his curls, and Youji allows himself to relax, to enjoy the sensation, to start to believe that, just maybe, it might be possible after all. He has to hope. He has to believe that someday they’ll manage it…

(Youji sometimes suspects that Ken views sex as a self-imposed test. That he considers it something he’s got to overcome before he can ever start to truly move beyond what Schuldig had forced on him… and it isn’t how it works at all, but what else does Ken know from sex? Not much as far as Youji can work out. Why wouldn’t he see it as a challenge?)

Ken allows himself to imagine it is merely accidental that Youji’s hands are at his waist and that helps, a little. He tries not to think about it and concentrates instead on the man’s face, on the look in his eyes and, clumsily, impulsively, he kisses him, his hands resting on the planes of Youji’s cheeks as he snatches at what little distraction he can find. It takes hard and conscious effort not to shy away as Youji’s hands reach for the button of his jeans and carefully unfastens them. It is a minor miracle that his only reaction is to grow tense again and gasp against Youji’s lips, breaking the kiss. Youji raises his head, gazing seriously into Ken's eyes.

“Ken,” Youji says and the sound of his voice, quiet though it is, seems intrusive even to him, “you’re gonna have to lift your hips so I can get your jeans off…”  
There is something caught in his throat; Ken swallows hard, hoping to rid himself of it, shifting his weight slightly, though he isn’t sure if he’s trying to help Youji out or if he’s simply feeling uncomfortable. “Sure,” he says, and his mouth feels so dry it’s a wonder he can still speak; the word gets stuck in his throat. “Go for it.”

Once again he sounds like he’s steeling himself for something. That’s not the way it works, Ken – but the determination in the boy’s eyes keeps Youji from commenting. Never mind the motive: Ken wants this and that’s going to have to be good enough for Youji. Carefully, he eases down Ken's jeans, casting them to the floor; Ken feels himself flush. Feels himself tense up as Youji’s hands brush against his thighs and he closes his eyes and suddenly he finds he can’t concentrate and _it’s Youji_ isn’t working any more Oh, God—

(Don’t look at me.)

—which is where it starts to break apart.

Youji kisses him again, sensing his anxiety and hoping to distract him from it. The blonde’s touch is like nothing he has experienced before; it is only frighteningly gentle, the merest brush of fingertips against skin and it makes Ken shiver, but even as his eyes fall closed he can tell something is splintering, he can already sense fear creeping up on him. He feels himself starting to panic as Youji presses his lips to his neck and the young man’s hands drift back down to his hips. One of Youji’s hands has found the waistband of his underwear and slipped almost accidentally beneath it, just a fraction, but all of a sudden it’s hard for Ken to breathe right. Hard for him to think straight. It’s Youji, he tells himself, and it doesn’t mean a thing. It doesn’t mean anything at all. He opens his eyes and sees nothing.

Oh God. Don’t. Don’t touch me there. It’ll hurt…

Schuldig never went away, of course. It’s different this time, it’s nothing like what he suffered before but Youji’s hands, Youji’s lips have become to Ken an inconsequence. He can’t concentrate. Can’t think for the burden of his sudden fear. All Ken can see is Schuldig, intrusive flashes of memories which feel more like nightmares than anything he could ever have managed to live through, and tactile hallucinations that make his skin creep; the dry prickle of Schuldig’s hair as it brushes against his cheeks and trails lazily across his shoulders, the weight of the German’s body where it presses against his own, the hand pressing against his abdomen, its too-long nails digging sharp and painful into his skin. Droplets of blood crawling down his back, his flanks. Schuldig’s face, his mocking smile, the contempt in his narrow eyes and Mary Mother of God Ken, you couldn’t even _see_ his face! The pain, though—

Ken knows he didn’t imagine the pain, or his own desperate humiliation.

… it’s going to hurt, I’m going to hate it, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t _survive_ it, not _again_!

Fear. Ken's fear is a swollen river in furious flood, breaking free of inadequate constraints to surge gleefully over bursting banks, swamping everything in its path. Fear breaks over him and drags him under before he can so much as cry out, pulling him beneath the surface and holding him trapped there, leaving Ken conscious of nothing but his own near-hysterical panic and a sudden, desperate need to flee and nothing to do but to ride with the current until it deigns to loosen its grip and leave him dazed and coughing in the shallows—

Leaving Ken to find himself sat at the edge of Youji’s bed, his head lowered, hands before him as if for balance, staring intently at nothing at all and gasping for breath as if he truly has been narrowly spared from drowning. Raising his head, Ken glances about himself for Youji and spots him sprawled awkwardly at the foot of the bed, his blonde curls tumbled across his face and his arms resting protectively across his stomach. Though he can’t work out how he got here or what it is happened to Youji, Ken already knows it’s hardly worth his asking what’s going on.

Always it is ultimately abortive.

“Youji?” His voice sounds thin and fragile and shaky. “You okay?”  
Youji raises his head, anger and frustration battling with weary acquiescence for control of his face. “Fuck, Ken. You were fine. What’d you want to do that for?” His voice is as tired as his eyes.  
“I…” Ken swallows in a futile bid to rid himself of the tight feeling in his throat, his chest. What did I do? he wonders, and feels himself start to blush miserably. He looks, to Youji’s eyes, cornered, frightened, impossibly young. And he decides to go for honesty. “I kinda thought you were… someone else.” The knuckles of his right hand, he realizes, are starting to sting and he rubs at them absently. He can’t remember lashing out though he understands he must have done. He can’t remember anything, just Schuldig’s smile and sudden, heart-stopping panic and the memory of pain…

Someone else. Ken knows he doesn’t need to explain exactly who. Youji knows who it is Ken would have mistaken him for and, though it makes no sense and it isn’t at all funny, it makes him want to laugh because if he doesn’t laugh he doesn’t know what he might do. It no longer strikes him as at all strange that Ken can punch him in the face like he means it then, all anxious contrition, tentatively ask him how he is. What, he wonders, is he supposed to say to that? There is nothing either of them can do to fix things. Nothing at all.

Perhaps feeling something is required of him Youji shifts, moving back to the top of the bed and lying down again and his gaze, as it meets and locks with Ken's, is only contemplative. The way Youji is looking at him makes Ken feel fragile and he doesn’t like it. Hates realizing Youji considers him breakable – but he doesn’t suppose he’s got a lot of choice in the matter.

“Sorry,” Ken says, and he means it. “God. I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to do that, Youji. I didn’t mean to.  
All Youji can do is smile because if he doesn’t smile, what then? “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

(And there is a point, always, where Youji thinks Ken will start crying, but he never does. He never cries.)

He takes Ken in his arms, gently tugging him down to lie by his side. Ken doesn’t say a word, doesn’t try to resist, he simply closes his eyes and lets Youji hold him and tries to pretend he doesn’t resent Youji for it, or feel quietly degraded all over again. He never has liked asking for help and it pains him that Youji could perceive him as the kind of person who needed it but, though Ken hates to admit it even to himself, Youji’s quite right in assuming he needs comfort, company – anything as long as it’s not nothing. Better Youji assumes it than he has to plead for it. Anything but that.

For a long while they simply lie there, entangled in one another’s arms, Youji gazing listlessly at the wall over Ken’s shoulder and absently running his fingers through his untidy hair. Ken can’t remember ever feeling lonelier in his life.

“If you don’t want to,” Youji says finally, and he says it gently, so gently it makes Ken feel like screaming, “that’s okay too.”  
“It’s… it’s not that.” Ken's voice is quiet, choked-off; he can barely recognize it as his own. It sounds like he’s listening to a stranger. It feels like eavesdropping, like he shouldn’t be there at all. To talk is agonizing, but it’s not as bad as the silence. Nothing could ever be as bad as the silence. “It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s just—”

And, once again, Ken finds he can’t even say it.

(… it’s that I can’t.)

And he knows that’s only slightly worse.

Ken can’t. He can’t stop thinking Schuldig no matter that he’s seeing Youji, he expects agony in the face of nothing but gentleness; the Schwarz won’t let him go. There is nothing he can do about it. Youji doesn’t respond, or at least not in words; Ken feels the young man’s hold on him tighten, just slightly, an embrace intended only to comfort and protect, and he feels the blood rush to his cheeks again. Youji – Youji has more than enough problems already without taking his on. It was Youji Schuldig was targeting; Ken was an incidental. On top of everything else he’s being unbearably selfish. Ken can’t believe how powerless he feels, or how thoroughly miserable.

“Kenken,” Youji says, softly and anxiously, “you’re trembling.”  
“I’m cold.” Ken replies and does so far too quickly, though it’s only half a lie.  
“Maybe you should get dressed again.”  
Ken nods, a gesture Youji feels more than sees. “Yeah. Probably.”

But he doesn’t move, and understands he doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t want to slip away just yet, not when he still feels so sad, and so horribly alone. It’s not like he’s got any pride left to lose where Youji is concerned – but it’s kind of comforting to find his neediness still embarrasses him. Ken opens his eyes and looks, not at Youji, but past the agitated curtains and out of the window though there’s nothing to see but the nothing of the city night, and his gaze is distant.

Sometime, without his really noticing that was what he was doing, he started learning to live with rape. He didn’t want to. Ken didn’t ever want to have to learn to cope. _Cope_. What a horrible word it is. A fucking awful word for a fucking awful concept… he wants to be over it not living with it, but living with the memories is only what he’s doing and he can’t imagine this ever being over. Nobody ever told him you weren’t really meant to get over things like this. Funny, really. Nineteen years old and Ken feels like a professional mourner; he knows grief and overcoming it backward but in any case it’s hard, it’s so goddamned _hard_ …

And it’s still not fair, but only kids believe the world should be fair and Ken isn’t a child any more.

He draws back – sometime. Ken doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there. He only knows it’s long enough for the cold night air to raise goose-pimples on his bare arms, long enough for him to start shivering for real, the warmth of Youji’s body where it presses against his own going no way to compensate for the sudden chill. Long enough for his arms, when he lets them slip gently from about Youji’s neck, to have developed an unexpected cramp. Ken pulls away, murmuring something even he doesn’t quite catch (an apology? Probably), getting to his feet and stepping back into his discarded jeans. His own shirt he finds entangled with Youji’s pants and he stoops to retrieve them both, handing the pants back to Youji with a diffident little ghost of a smile.

“It’s not that late,” Ken says by means of explanation, before far too quickly tugging his top back on. Youji tries not to notice how much more relaxed he looks when fully dressed, and how much more so again when Youji sits and reluctantly slips back into his own rather creased pants. Youji tells himself he’s got no right to be disappointed when he’d always known this was going nowhere. The tension seems to bleed off Ken as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, one bare foot resting on the edge of the mattress, one arm resting lightly on top of his raised knee.

If it weren’t for the fact Youji knows full well there is nothing much of anything to be seen out of his window, he would have sworn Ken had caught sight of something fascinating out there, but maybe the boy simply doesn’t want to look at him…

Fully dressed, there is nothing remarkable about him. He could be anybody, or nobody.

Ken prefers to keep his scars invisible. Maybe then he can pretend they don’t exist.

He’s back in short sleeves anyway. He has gone from pretending the faint, broken white lines of the scars at his wrists don’t bother him to barely noticing them. They felt like stigmata at first but nobody else, or so he has come to realize, even notices them. How often do people ever look at someone else’s wrists? Even if a stranger were to notice them then in any case they’re only scars; they could be from cat scratch or plant thorns or any damn thing at all and he diligently tries to forget how they came to be there. Ken tells himself he has far too many scars, already, for him to remember where they all came from and finds he’s almost starting to believe it.

“Do you want me to go?” Ken asks after a moment, breaking the strained silence.  
Youji, lounging against his pillows, a cigarette burning almost unregarded between his lips as he attempts to communicate the theory of ease, straightens to survey Ken's back from behind a hank of tumbled hair, trying to gauge his mood from the set of his shoulders and the cant of his head, tilted back slightly as he watches intently over nothing at all. “You can stay if that’s what you want,” he says quietly, “but you don’t have to if you’d rather be alone.” What do you want?  
“I don’t know.” Ken says, replying not to Youji’s words but to the question he caught behind them. “I really don’t. Times like this it’s like… it’s like _nothing’s_ gonna feel right. Being alone hurts like Hell, but this… really ain’t much better, no offense. You know what I saw back then.” And he isn’t asking a question.  
“You don’t belong to Schuldig, Ken.” Youji says flatly.  
“I know I don’t.” Ken doesn’t turn. His mouth feels tainted. It’s like, he thinks, someone split his lip. Like he’s tasting blood on his tongue. “He’s got me anyway.”

And Ken has drawn in on himself again.

And it’s just something he does now, if he doesn’t catch himself.

Ken's posture is a silent plea that he be ignored. Everything about his stance suggests only defensiveness, anxiety, a certain discreet desire to be overlooked completely. The set of his shoulders suggests internalized tension. He holds himself like a patient cat watching over a mouse-hole, the composed façade concealing only incompletely the desire to pounce. Even here he is prepared to defend himself; even now Ken embraces the possibility of violence. Schuldig caught him off-guard and he’s damned if he’ll see it happen again.

“I don’t know why you bother, Youji.” Ken says tightly. “I don’t know how you can. I sure as Hell wouldn’t bother with me.”  
“Hey.” Youji says softly. The soft whisper of fabric sliding against fabric tells Ken that Youji has moved; he swears he can feel the weight of the young man’s body next to his own, though Youji hasn’t so much as brushed against him. Ken fancies he can feel the stirring of Youji’s breath against his nape, though he suspects it’s just his imagination. “Hey. Kenken. Come on. I know you don’t mean that, kid.”  
It seems to take a long time for Ken to find his voice and even when he does it’s only because he’s got to speak, not because he can find anything he truly needs to say. “You think?” he manages after a while, and that feels like effort enough.  
“No. I know. I know you’re stronger than that.” Youji’s voice is confident, and Ken swears he can damn near hear the blonde smile. “Because I know how goddamned stubborn you are. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as determined as you. The day a guy like you gives up on himself… well, I always figured I’d be ducking fire and brimstone. You’re a fighter, Ken. You always have been. And I know you aren’t about to let anyone tell you otherwise.”

And Youji’s right, of course. You don’t give in, Ken, because you don’t know how to. Because it goes against everything you can still believe in. But mainly because the minute you do, that sick bastard Schuldig wins by default.

Gently, Youji rests his hand on Ken's shoulder, and is unnerved when he feels it shake; when Ken raises his head and half-turns to look at him, Youji realizes with a sudden horrible thrill that he is crying. How long has it been since he last saw Ken cry? It must, he thinks, have been months. Ken doesn’t cry, he isn’t the kind to, but he is crying now and he barely even seems to realize it. Ken is weeping totally silently, without any of the attendant drama that usually comes hand in hand with tears; as Youji watches, he smiles and wipes the tears from one of his eyes, and shakes his head.

“Shit,” Ken says, and his voice is far too even, “this wasn’t meant to happen.”

Perhaps not, but Youji suspects that maybe it had to. Wordlessly, he slips his arm about Ken's shoulders and all Ken does is let it happen, briefly letting himself slump against Youji’s side. It’s just for a moment, he tells himself. He doesn’t want help but he needs it, and he thanks the God he can barely remember believing in that Youji doesn’t need to be told. None of them do, not really, so why should confessing to Youji that he is sad – that no matter how badly he wants to cope alone he simply can’t manage that, because when it comes down to it he’s only human – have to feel like an admission of guilt?

“There’s nothing wrong with crying if that’s what you need to do.” Youji says finally. We’ve all been there, Ken. It must have been a woman who said men weren’t supposed to cry.  
“Christ,” Ken says, and it is if Youji has never spoken, “I feel so goddamn _stupid_ …”

But I can’t keep leaning on you, Youji.

And he pulls away. Pressing his fingertips to his closed eyes and feeling his own tears spill over them, Ken takes a deep, shaky breath and breaks abruptly free of Youji’s embrace. All he does is sit upright and yet it is a plea – more, an unsubtle demand for solitude, unequivocal as if Ken had screamed at him to leave him alone and yet in its understatement it is somehow only slightly worse than a scream would have been – yet Youji can’t pretend he didn’t see it coming.

He only sighs. Says, more to fill the silence than because he really needs to know the answer, “Where are you going?”  
“Does it matter?” Ken asks wearily. Realizing how dismissive he must have sounded, he adds, “Sorry, Youji, but I need to be by myself right now.” Don’t pity me. I won’t have you start to pity me. I won’t stand for it.  
Youji squeezes his shoulder. “Well, if you’re sure, I’m not about to stop you. But… if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” And he lets Ken go, sitting back himself. His eyes say he is at a loss, that he wants to do more but doesn’t know what more he can do.  
Ken only smiles at him, like a parent to a child, and his smile is tight and sad and paradoxical and utterly, utterly beautiful. “I’ll come back, Youji,” he says suddenly and recklessly. “You know I’ll always come back, right?”

(That's a promise.)

And he kisses Youji chastely and clumsily, and scrambles to his feet and slips from the room, closing the door quietly and imperfectly behind him and to Youji’s eyes the saddest thing about it is that Ken has forgotten his shoes… The door, caught by the sudden draught, swings back on itself with a soft creak, slipping open to reveal a sliver of the balcony beyond it and all Youji does, all he can do, is watch it swing, shivering slightly as the chill night air insinuates itself about him. He doesn't try to follow Ken, doesn't even move: he knows better than to do that. Where it matters, Ken always has preferred to keep his distance.

Ken leaves Youji with nothing to do but gaze after him, his sleepy eyes full of concern and hopeless regret, regret for something that could have been beautiful and was destroyed before it had even begun. Leaves him to touch his fingers to his lips, and close his eyes, and smile gently and sadly.

Even Ken’s kiss tastes like salt.

 _-ende-_


End file.
